other theory could he account for it. Only a boy with a collection to
support would run such risks.

To the keeper's mind the human boy up to the age of twenty or so had
no object in life except to collect eggs. After twenty, of course, he
took to poaching. This was a boy of about seventeen.

On the fifth day he caught him, and conducted him into the presence of
Mr. Montagu Watson.

Mr. Watson was brief and to the point. He recognised his visitor as
the boy for whose benefit he had made himself stiff for two days.

The keeper added further damaging facts.

"Bin here every day, he 'as, sir, for the last week. Well, I says to
myself, supposition is he'll come once too often. He'll come once too
often, I says. And then, I says, I'll cotch him. And I cotched him."

The keeper's narrative style had something of the classic simplicity
of Julius Caesar's.

Mr. Watson bit his pen.

"What you boys come for I can't understand," he said irritably.
"You're from the school, of course?"

"Yes," said the captive.

"Well, I shall report you to your house-master. What is your name?"